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Sara Fielder


Apart


I don't love your pretty anymore.
I wretch up chunks of vomit on the floor
and walk through it in bare feet
with a train
that trails behind and drags
your lies through them.
I scald
contaminated conscience thin
to try and keep your spores
from getting in,
and suffocate myself with
fragrant soap
to wash away my hate
with pope on rope.
And above all this
sickening strong distain,
I'd kill myself to
see you once again.

Written by Sara Fielder © Nov 2012

Submitted: Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Edited: Sunday, October 19, 2014

Topic of this poem: love


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